Part 1
Damien hung up the phone with a sense of relief, the lingering traces of the longer-than-necessary conference call dissipating as he glanced at his watch. It was well past the lunch hour, and the rumble of hunger in his stomach served as a gentle reminder that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
With a sigh, he pushed back from his desk and made his way toward the elevator. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said to Cathy as he strode past her desk. “Heading down to the canteen. Do you want me to grab you anything?”
“Oh, thank you for offering. I’ll take you up on that. If they have any biscottis left, I could use one to dip in the afternoon coffee I was going to make in a few minutes.”
“You’ve got it.”
The soft chime of the elevator bell signaled Damien’s descent to the bustling ground floor of the tower. As the doors slid open, he stepped out into the lively atmosphere of the lobby. He passed through the colored reflections cast on the tile floor by the Chihuly glass sculptures strung to the ceiling and strolled past clusters of building employees and visitors studying the historical society’s permanent exhibition on the history of Dutch influence in Albany. The only people who gave him a second glance and subtle nod of acknowledgment were the lobby staples—security, whose job it was to scrutinize and study every face that passed through the massive doors and transepts of the building. The closer he moved toward the canteen, the livelier the atmosphere and the stronger the aroma of freshly cooked meals became.
Joining the queue, Damien’s thoughts drifted to the upcoming keynote presentation on “Customer Centricity.” It was a topic that had been consuming more of his thoughts lately, and the more he considered it, the more he couldn’t shake the feeling that Anne would be the perfect addition to the presentation. Her insights and expertise in marketing would undoubtedly elevate the presentation and add new dimension and depth to the discussion.
As he reached the front of the line, Damien placed his order for a sandwich, salad, and a couple of the fresh biscottis on display. The anticipation of the meal momentarily distracted him from his train of thought, but as he waited for the order to be prepared and wrapped up, his mind returned to the presentation. With a dawning realization, he decided he wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip away.
In a spur-of-the-moment decision, he asked for a cronut and a cup of coffee to be added to his tab. Grabbing a few packets of sugar and coffee creamer singles on his way out, he headed back to the elevators. Balancing the cup of coffee in one hand, he swiped his ID dongle and pressed the button for the 50th floor.
It wasn’t often that Damien ventured outside the confines of the C-Suite, but today he felt like rebelling from the routine. He wanted to see firsthand where Anne and her team worked, getting a glimpse into their world and understanding their environment. The 50th floor was divided into quadrants—one of them was IT, and two belonged to stateside customer service. His hand hesitated on the doorknob to the fourth, taking a moment before stepping into the bustling marketing department. He immediately sensed a shift in the atmosphere. The energy was vibrant, abuzz with creativity and collaboration. A few new faces huddled together in small groups over a table, their chatter indecipherable. Others tapped away at their keyboards, focused and tuned into whatever was playing in the earbuds stuffed in their ears. Some moved freely between desks, sharing ideas and solutions with an ease that was refreshing to witness. It felt like a healthy space.
Taking a moment more to observe his surroundings, Damien noted more differences between his usual environment and theirs. The department’s layout was open and inviting, as opposed to the standoffish layout of the top floor with its walls of closed-off executive offices. Of course, it had its HuGES-provided sleek modern furnishings, but where it varied was the colorful artwork and blown-up versions of HuGES collateral adorning the walls. Their desks and the bulletin boards beside each of them held little identifiers of their occupants. One had scented candles and a large potted plant. Another had candy jars and memes taped to the back of her monitor, along with a calendar featuring cat heads Photoshopped as muffin tops. Two of the women were engaged in playful banter, laced with expletives, and each had silly pictures of the other on their bulletin boards. Each desk had a personality. Some employees were dressed in business casual, while others wore t-shirts and jeans. It was a stark contrast to the formal, uptight ambiance and quiet efficiency of the executive suite. Where the executive floor exuded a sense of strict formality and hierarchy, the marketing department felt more dynamic, collaborative, friendly—and chaotic.
Finally, Damien spotted Anne across the room in the lone office situated in the heart of the department. She was engrossed in a conversation with a group of her team members, her brow furrowed but her gestures animated with concentration and enthusiasm. As Damien made his way toward her office, he couldn’t help but notice the subtle shift in atmosphere. Conversations quieted as heads turned to watch his approach, ripples of curiosity passing through the room. Despite this, the team members’ demeanor remained warm and approachable; they offered polite smiles and friendly greetings. And for a moment, Damien felt—was that self-consciousness? He was the one who stood out here, dressed to the nines in a three-piece suit.
Anne looked up as he neared, the furrow in her brow melting into a broad smile that spread across her face as she caught sight of him. The others in her office, noticing the change in her expression, swiveled their heads toward him. Anne said something to them, prompting them to gather their things and scatter. The last one to leave held the door open for Damien.
“Thank you,” Damien said before taking a seat in one of the simpler chairs—one on legs, not wheels. He held out the coffee and cronut as an offering. “I was in the neighborhood and thought you might enjoy a little pick-me-up.”
“Damien, uh, wow. Thank you.” Her voice was warm and familiar, laced with curiosity. “What brings you down here to our neck of the woods?” Surprise flickered in her eyes as she accepted the coffee, pastry, and handful of coffee additives with a grateful smile.
“I didn’t know how you take your coffee,” Damien said apologetically, “so I brought you… uh, everything, I guess.”
She giggled, and Damien felt a warmth spread inside him. He shrugged with faux insouciance, masking his true intent behind a casual demeanor. “Anyway, I just thought I’d take a break from the executive suites for a change of scenery. See where the magic happens,” he replied with a smile, gesturing at the lively office. “And while I’m here, I have a proposition for you.”
Anne raised an eyebrow, her interest evidently piqued. “Oh? I’m intrigued. What’s on your mind?” She flicked a few sugar packets open, dumping their contents into her coffee, followed by several creamers. “For the record,” she said, giving the cup a swish and smirking, “I like my coffee to not taste like coffee. Not a fan of the bitterness.”
“Put a pinch of salt in it,” Damien suggested, earning a skeptical look. “I promise it works. Trust in the science.”
“I’ll take your word for it. So, what’s this mystery proposition?”
Damien leaned in closer, his tone conspiratorial. “How would you like to, not only build the visuals for, but also be my guest speaker for the ‘Customer Centricity’ keynote I have to deliver in a couple of weeks?” he asked, excitement bubbling beneath the surface. “I can’t think of anyone better suited for the role of co-speaker.”
Anne’s smile faltered, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. “Oh, I don’t know, Damien,” she hesitated, self-doubt creeping into her voice. “I’m not sure I’m the right person for that. I mean, I’m a marketing manager who’s been here, what, two months? I’m not an expert in customer centricity.”
Damien shook his head, determined to dispel her doubts. “You’re more than a marketing manager,” he insisted, his tone earnest. “You have a deep understanding of our customers and their needs. You’ve brought innovative approaches to marketing that have consistently delivered impressive results. I’ve seen the KPIs. Even Charlie’s current enmity towards us can’t dispute those results. Besides, you’re passionate about what you do, and that passion is contagious. I think your unique perspective would bring a fresh, insightful angle to the keynote.”
Gratitude shone in Anne’s eyes, her expression softening. “Thank you, Damien,” she murmured, her voice tinged with emotion. “That means a lot coming from you.”
“Let’s not forget your natural charisma. If I’ve learned anything about you since our chance meeting in the elevator, it’s that you’re a force to be reckoned with.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You captivate people with your enthusiasm, authenticity, and kindness. I’ve seen it firsthand.”
Her eyebrow quirked slightly, amusement flickering across her features. Damien felt a rare brush of self-consciousness and a warmth in his cheeks. He ignored it.
“Trust me, you’ll be a fantastic addition to the presentation.”
Anne’s smile returned, though tinged with hesitancy. “Well, if you’re sure…”
“I’m positive,” Damien reassured her confidently. “We’ll need to discuss the details further. How about we have a business dinner? A change of scenery for you this time. There’s a fantastic upscale restaurant downtown I really enjoy. My treat, of course.”
Damien watched Anne's hesitation evanesce. “That sounds wonderful,” she exclaimed eagerly.
He felt a flutter in his chest at her enthusiasm. “Wonderful. How does Friday sound? Are you free? 7:30?”
“I can be.”
“Where do you live?”
“Across the river. Rensselaer.”
“I can grab you from your place, if you’re comfortable with that. That way you don’t have to worry about getting changed in the office, and you’d be more or less on the way to the restaurant.”
“That’s very sweet. I’ll take you up on that.”
“I’m glad to have you on board. I’ll write you an email with the details now. Reply with your address so I know which station to stop at.”
Sitting in front of her, Damien sent a quick email with the details.
From: Damien Wilson <damienwilson@hges.com>
To: Anne Neuman <aneuman@hges.com>
Subject: Dinner Friday
Anne,
I may be sitting in front of you at your desk, but this is the official, formal invitation to dinner this Friday at 7:30 to discuss the upcoming presentation. Do kindly reply with your address so that your chauffeur may pick you up at 7:15. Dress code: C-Suite chic :)
Damien
“Sent,” he said, sliding the phone back into his pocket.
Moments later, her email chimed. She read it and giggled, tossing him a coy sideways glance. “C-Suite chic, huh?”
He shrugged, nonchalant.
She tapped out her own reply, reading out loud as she went. “Damien, I am also sitting across from you, and this is my official, formal RSVP to dinner on Friday at 7:30. Below please find my address. I am looking forward to our chat.” A dramatic pause and click of the mouse. “Aaaaaaannnddd… sent!”
Damien felt his phone buzz in his pocket with the notification of a new email.
“Now,” she said, standing, “would you like to meet my lot of nuisances?”
“Not worker bees?” he said with a chuckle.
“Oh, please,” she said, “that would require them to treat me as their queen. I’m more a victim of their antics.”
He laughed again, getting to his feet and grabbing his paper bag of lunch. He opened her office door, allowing her to step past him into the main space. He once again smelled the mixture of florals, soap, and natural scent in her wake. Following right behind her, he put the bag on another table.
Anne clapped her hands together and cleared her throat, and the heads that weren’t listening to music swiveled in their direction. Upon seeing their other colleagues' attention change from their workstations to them, the others took their headphones out.
“Hey, everyone,” she said brightly, “I’d like you all to meet the big man in charge. This is Damien Wilson, our CEO. He’s been the burning bush commanding us to keep the rebrand under wraps until…” she trailed off. “Damien, this is marketing.”
Damien felt the energy transform instantly as she spoke the letters “C-E-O.” They seemed to straighten up in their chairs, their movements becoming more self-conscious as they realized the significance of his presence in their midst. A few of them discreetly, or so they thought, tidied their desks, adjusted their clothing or looked down at their casual clothing altogether, their mannerisms betraying their newfound nervousness in the presence of the company’s top executive—the one who, for all intents and purposes, signed their paychecks. Anne didn’t seem to notice their change; she, herself, looked at home and as comfortable as ever.
Scanning their uneasy faces, Damien didn’t know how to tell them not to feel uncomfortable around him, that he didn’t bite or that he didn’t care about the language, lax dress code, or clutter on their desks. He didn’t know how to convey that the only thing he cared about was their work, and all signs pointed to excellence under Anne’s supervision. He knew that saying it would only make them that much more aware of his status, much like it had for Anne that first time in the C-Suite. He did what he thought was best, and that was to give them as genuine of a smile as he possibly could and stuff his hands into the pockets of his slacks to look as pococurante as possible.
Anne grabbed him by the left arm and guided him over to a trio of desks on one side of the office. “These are our designers,” she informed him as they approached. “This is Evie, our art director. And Carrie and Ollie, our Designer and Junior Designer respectively.”
Evie set down the tablet stylus she had been holding and stood. Damien shook hands with each of them in kind. “Pleasure to meet you three,” he greeted. “I’ve heard, and seen, a lot about your excellent work.”
“Thank you. Nice to meet you as well, Mr. Wilson,” Evie said, not unfriendly but certainly timidly, a touch of color rising to her cheeks at his compliment.
“They’re who have been working diligently on the rebrand, and will be our visual experts for the presentations.”
“Yes, we’re working our way through your infographics,” Evie agreed with a nervous smile.
“Actually, that’s why we’re over here. Damien and I will be collaborating on an upcoming presentation on customer centricity. This one will be totally from scratch and we don’t want to repeat any of those visual war crimes,” Anne said with a big smile and gave Damien a gentle nudge with her elbow.
Warmth radiated from his left arm and side. He returned the smile, hopefully outwardly displaying the warmth he felt. “Indeed. I appreciate the efforts that you’ve put into everything you’ve been handed recently, and everything you are about to tackle.”
“He’ll obviously be leading the project, but he and I will work together to get you any text and data ASAP. Get started on constructing a Powerpoint template—an updated one with our current branding and we’ll reassess again after the rebrand comes to, uh…”
She looked to him for assistance.
“A verdict.”
“A verdict,” she repeated. “What content would be most helpful for you to get started with? The data and rudimentary charts for the infographics, or the text component?”
“Data and charts, hands down, Mr. Wilson. Those will take the longest—templates can be designed without text, but we have to actually sit down and figure out how to design the data in compelling or otherwise interesting ways,” Evie explained.
“Done,” he said with a solitary nod before turning to look at Anne directly. “I can get that to you within the next few days.”
“Thanks, guys,” Anne said, turning back to him and heading back towards her office. Standing outside her door, she handed him the bag of food gesturing to her desk. “Would you like to stay for lunch? We can dine… al desko.”
He couldn’t resist the laugh that escaped, and her playfully gorgeous smile widened.
Charming. I can’t wait to drop that one in a conversation with Erik, he thought.
“Not sure I can really take credit for that,” she admitted.
“Well, I’ve never heard it before so it might as well be an Anne original.”
Then he shook his head at her question, feeling the feathery tickle of skin against skin on his fingers as he took the bag from her. “I appreciate the offer, but Cathy is anxiously waiting on the biscotti I’m smuggling into the C-Suite for her 2pm coffee.”
He started for the door. “But hey,” he said stopping in front of it, “fear not. We’ll dine together shortly when we delve into the minutiae of the presentation. I’ll email you the details.”
Her hand on the handle to her own door, she gazed at him from across the room. “Alright then. Bye, Damien.”
She went into her office, catching his eye one more time through the glass door as he disappeared into the elevator lobby to return to his.
The rainfall from the overhead shower nozzle was hot and comforting, and despite the fact that Damien was hoping it would do so, the cascade did nothing to wash away any of the inexplicable jitters he was having. He turned off the faucet, standing still for a minute as the droplets of water trickled down his skin, mingling with the somewhat oppressive steam that filled the bathroom.
Exiting the shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out of the en suite and padded across the carpet to the walk-in. He began to sift through his options methodically, but his mind just continued to irritatingly whir with indecision.
Blue? Gray? Striped? Solid? Cotton? Silk?
He stepped back from the decision paralysis, picking up his phone from the nightstand. Opening the email he had sent to Anne earlier in the week, he quickly composed one more email in the thread and set it down on the bed.
From: Damien Wilson <damienwilson@hges.com>
To: Anne Neuman <aneuman@hges.com>
Subject: Re: Dinner Friday
Anne,
Confirming that I’ll be on my way soon. ETA 7:15 :)
Damien
–See quoted message-
He finally settled on a suit and tie, slipping into pants, then shirt, then waistcoat, then jacket. He fussed over the fit, smoothing down the finest of wrinkles, and adjusting the knot of the tie with painstaking precision. He had desperately tried to elevate the look to an Eldredge-style knot, but he couldn’t get it right, so with a resigned sigh, he went for the classic Pratt. He moved on to cufflinks and finding a watch, which proved more challenging than he anticipated too. Every decision seemed to feel ridiculously more monumental. He combed and styled his hair into its usual place, but even that didn’t feel right. He couldn’t get it as smooth as he really wanted, and he kept finding stray hairs that would not stay put.
His phone pinged.
From: Anne Neuman <aneuman@hges.com>
To: Damien Wilson <damienwilson@hges.com>
Subject: Re: Dinner Friday
:) see you soon!
–See quoted message-
He looked back in the mirror, his reflection staring back, judging himself with mounting anxiety.
Why are you so freaked out? You have business dinners every fucking week. Keep it together.
With a final glance in the mirror, he turned away and made his way downstairs. Confronted with yet another decision he had a hard time making, Damien stood before the row of car keys on the hooks on the wall in the grand foyer. The 722? The Aventador? The Cayenne was tucked away until snowfall, and he wasn’t feeling the BMW again. It was between the supercars, both of which were fast, flashy, and fun. His gut said “save the lime green Lamborghini for later,” so with a flick, he grabbed the fob for the 722 and stepped outside, locking the door behind him. Once outside, he noticed Erik’s own BMW had since joined his in the driveway. A detour to finally say hello, in person, for the first time in several weeks sounded like a good idea. He descended the outside set of stairs into the basement, finding Erik seated on the sofa in the dimly lit mixing studio. Erik was plucking away at what, based on the four-stringed instrument he held in his hands, was a bassline. Damien shot a glance at the computer monitors above the mixing board, frequency waves frozen mid-playback.
At the sound of the door closing behind him, Erik lifted his head but his fingers didn’t stop moving.
“Sounds like shit,” Damien said, leaning against the door frame, crossing his arms.
“You look like shit,” Erik said a split second later, then did a double take with a quizzical raise of the eyebrow. “Huh. You changed.”
“How did you know?” Damien looked in the wall-mounted mirror, noticing his tie had shifted again. He began to adjust it.
“Because this morning you asked for my opinion on a tie. My opinion. You never ask for my opinion of anything clothing related, and frankly that’s offensive.”
Damien gestured to Erik’s getup of ripped jeans and a graphic t-shirt. “Send me your stylist’s contact information.”
“It’s very easy to get in touch with them. Clearance rack at Wal-Mart. Anyway, you had taken a photo of yourself, sans tie, sent it to me with the text: ‘Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.’ Now you are wearing a different suit and a different tie, which, if memory serves, is not what I picked.”
Damien chuckled, taking a seat next to him on the sofa. “I’m pretty sure all I said was, ‘pick one.’ I would never disrespect Obi-Wan like that.”
Erik shrugged. “Whatever you say, Jar-Jar.”
“How’s it coming along? Is this the same track you were working on a couple weeks ago?” Damien found another piece of lint, picking at it.
“Yeah,” Erik said with a scrunch of his face. “I keep tinkering with it because I just can’t get it to feel as rounded out as I’d like. Something is missing.” Damien watched Erik as he continued plucking at the bassline.
“You’ll get it. What I heard last time sounded really good.” Damien saw a scuff on his shoe and began to rub at it.
“Thanks.” Erik watched as Damien picked at his pants and shoes for another moment. He must have noticed the tension in Damien’s demeanor because suddenly his teasing took on a more pointed edge.
“Planning to sweep someone off their feet tonight, Damien?” Erik quipped. He set the guitar down. “Maybe right over the threshold and into bed?”
Here we go again, Damien thought with a hint of bitterness. He rolled his eyes, though the irritated flush that crept up his neck certainly betrayed his stress. He pulled at the tie again. “Business dinner, Erik,” he replied. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
One of Erik’s blond eyebrows cocked again, a knowing glint in his eyes as he leaned back on the sofa, crossing his leg over his thigh. “Right. You know, for someone who is all about being ‘business as usual,’ you seem excessively concerned about your appearance tonight—sitting there and nitpicking your suit and tie. Is it because you're afraid she will notice your imperfections and her sharp tongue and sarcasm will knock you down a few pegs? Which you are in desperate need of, I might add.”
The teasing lilt in Erik’s voice did not escape Damien.
Erik then stuck a finger into Damien’s thigh at an invisible strand of… something. “Missed one.”
Damien slapped his hand away, then tried to look at where Erik pointed as inconspicuously as possible. “It’s not like that,” he replied with forced nonchalance. “Anne is a colleague. I’m not concerned about her ‘sharp tongue’ or anything of the sort.”
“Ah, so it is the mysterious Anne. She’s got you tied up in tighter knots than the one around your neck. What’s her favorite color? Should I guess?”
Damien scowled, though there was a bit of begrudging amusement in his expression. “You’re impossible. It’s just a business dinner.”
Erik grinned, undeterred by Damien’s protestations. “I seem to recall you telling me all about how Chuck—”
“Charlie.”
“Chuckles the Clown came at you guns blazing last week and you stuck him in the corner with a dunce cap for a time out. And yet, you allow this Anne and her ‘the pictures in your slideshow look like they were made by a third grader with broken crayons’ to call you a smartass.”
“First of all, that’s not what I told you she said. Second, I can appreciate honesty.”
“Sure, sure. All I’m saying is that tolerance for insubordination isn’t exactly your usual MO, and it’s funny how you suddenly develop a tolerance for sarcasm and insubordination when it comes to… certain colleagues,” Erik jested, his playful jab landing with unerring accuracy.
Damien brushed off his pants again, standing and moving towards the door.
“Wait a sec, are you hoping she’s a dominatrix? Do you want her to be mean, call you a bad boy? Are you into that?”
“I’m leaving.”
Damien opened the studio door and stepped outside, hearing Erik call “Use protection!” right as it latched behind him.
Lowering himself into the driver’s seat and closing the door, as usual Damien was met with silence in the seconds before the machine roared to life. He raised the garage door, and with a tap of the brake, a flick of the button cover, and the push of the ignition on the gear shift, the car let out a monstrous growl. He crept out from the garage contemplating the next question: top down or up?
Ugh.
He settled for down. Everybody loves a convertible, right?
Okay, next step. Music. Music, music, music.
As the top origamied itself into the compartment, Damien scrolled through his playlists, unsure of what Anne would be okay with. Electro hip-hop? Too niche and definitely not for everybody. Maybe in the future. House? Less niche, but not really how you introduce someone to your music tastes. He cycled through his songs, and each one didn’t seem to settle right. One glance at his watch told him he’d be late if he spent any more time thinking about it, so he hit the indie pop playlist, peeling out of the driveway.
The headlights carved a route into the road under what was probably going to be a brilliant sunset. The sleek machine hugged every curve, lurching with every upshift, but none of the usual driving anodynes seemed to effectively drown out the whirlwind of thoughts swirling incessantly in Damien’s mind.
He tapped his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. It really wasn’t like him to be so jittery, yet here he was, perpetually grappling with this irksome sense of unease he couldn’t pin down.
Was it the presentation? The dinner? He continued to cycle through possibilities of uncertainty. Or was it just the usual pre-event nerves, amplified by the overbearing weight of expectations? Every business dinner he attended always felt higher pressure than that of any office meeting. You weren’t on your own turf, and your silver tongue and business-savvy quick thinking had to be at full tank—you were on your own.
At rest waiting on a light change, Damien’s gaze fell on the dashboard. The pristine surface, much like his suit, had been marred by a clump of yellow pollen. He brushed it away with a swipe of his hand, a frustrating and futile attempt to quell the rising anxiety. The only thing it did was make it flutter down into the red stitching of the passenger seat.
Two young men in the car to his left rolled down their window, excitedly hollered, “Wow, what a car!” The one in the passenger seat had taken out his phone to take a video.
Absently with an appreciative smile, Damien said, “Thank you.” All the while, his brain kept musing, “Is the car clean enough for a guest?” A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was absurd, really, that he was fixating on such trivial fucking details in the grand scheme of things. But sometimes, it was the little things that tended to gnaw at you.
To indulge the petrol heads, he accelerated forward as the light turned green in that aggressive way car fanatics liked, the way that showcased the sheer power of the machine.
Damien shook his head. Erik’s ridiculous provocations niggled in the recesses of his mind.
“The man thinks everything boils down to sex,” he muttered under his breath, exasperation bleeding into his voice even though Erik wasn’t around to hear it. He supposed it was possible Erik was right, in a way, but that didn’t mean Erik was right about everything. And it certainly didn’t mean it was as simple as that.
He tried to push that aside; whatever the reason for his nerves, it wasn’t going to be productive to have them derail him. He had a role to play, a job to do, and a presentation to construct with an intelligent and dedicated colleague.
Damien rolled up in front of Anne’s house at precisely 7:15. The house was a blue mundanely-facaded Victorian-style house that, situated on a hill, probably overlooked the river and downtown skyline, including Beverwijck Tower, from the upper floors. He beeped the horn twice, then got out of the car, taking a moment to lean against the body and look up at the, as predicted, incredible sunset.
The sky had been painted vivid and vibrant oranges and magentas, rippling cloud formations ignited in majestic swaths of color in the fading light in what had to be the peak of sunset. The sodium vapor lamps around him flickered on, casting staggered pools of yellow light along the street.
Behind him, he heard the squeak of the front door opening and he turned to see Anne stepping out, and—
Wow.
Two words could describe the woman in that moment: simple elegance. The black, no-frills midi dress was one that probably had many purposes, but for tonight it had been elevated with a nice necklace and earrings, and had been accompanied by a pair of plain black wedges. Even from where he stood, Damien could tell her hair had been styled slightly different, and the lipstick and the makeup just accentuated her features.
Another woman appeared in the door beside her, looked at Damien, and then the two of them exchanged words that he couldn’t hear. Anne laughed at whatever it was, giving her a look he knew well—a look of exasperated amusement at someone being ridiculous. As if on cue, Damien heard Anne say, “Oh, stop it.” She laughed again. “I’ll see you later.”
As she made her way down the front steps, Damien moved over to the passenger side.
“Good evening, Anne from Domestic Marketing,” he said as she approached.
“Hello there yourself, Damien from C-Suite,” she replied, looking up at him with glittering eyes.
“You look, uh,” he scrambled to find a good word, “different.”
Of all the vocabulary words in your punchbowl, that’s the one you opted for? Moron.
“You did say C-Suite chic,” she teased, appearing unfazed.
Damien cursed his lack of eloquence. “I did, didn’t I? Well, you’ve successfully done that, and then some. You look lovely.”
Better… I guess.
“You look lovely as well,” she said. “Very handsome.”
Damien felt a surge of warmth at her kind words and wondered if the rosy color on her cheeks was real blush, artificial blush, or a pink cast from the sunset.
He opened the car door and watched her eyes follow it as it swung upwards.
“Your chariot awaits,” he extended, hoping to hide his nerves behind a veneer of charm.
“And they say chivalry is dead,” she replied.
“I’m not they,” he grinned with a wink as she delicately entered the car, closing the door after all limbs and fabric had been safely tucked inside.
“Can I make a request?” she asked timidly as Damien fired up the engine again.
“Of course.”
“Can we close the top on the way there? I don’t want to show up at the restaurant with a wind-blown bird’s nest.”
Of course she wouldn’t want the top down. You fucking idiot.
Damien gave a curt nod, letting the top unfold and settle into place overtop their heads.
“But it would be nice to have it open on the way back, if you’re okay with that. I don’t get to ride in a convertible very often.”
Damien smiled at her, pulling carefully into the street again, beginning their drive. “Of course.”
As they merged into the flow of traffic, the tension between them seemed to dissipate, displaced by a more relaxed atmosphere. Damien stole a glance at Anne, using a lane change as an excuse to do it. Her profile was illuminated by the soft glow of the dashboard lights. She was gazing upwards at the stars beginning to appear one by one.
“Did you see how beautiful that sunset was?” Damien remarked, gesturing towards the sky that now was melting into purples and blues.
Her lips curved into a smile. “Absolutely stunning,” she agreed. “I like to think that the Earth gives us lots of boring sunsets, if you could call them that, so that we appreciate the incredible ones like tonight’s all the more.”
They fell into a comfortable silence, the only sounds were the growl of the engine, the occasional rustle of fabric as she adjusted in her seat, and the pop music playing low. Eventually, the quiet became too heavy, and Damien found himself reaching for a topic to fill the void.
They fell into a comfortable silence, the only sounds were the growl of the engine, the occasional rustle of fabric as she adjusted in her seat, and the pop music playing low. Eventually, the quiet became too heavy, and Damien found himself reaching for a topic to fill the void.
“So, any favorite music genres?” he ventured awkwardly, hoping to steer the conversation towards safer waters.
Anne’s eyes lit up with interest. “I wouldn’t call myself eclectic, but while I like a little bit of most things, I tend to gravitate towards whatever Top 40 stuff is playing. But right now I’m really feeling indie folk. There’s something about the storytelling that resonates with me.”
Damien nodded in understanding. “Indie folk, huh? I can see the appeal. Though I admittedly can’t say it finds its way onto my playlists very often.” He turned the volume dial a notch louder. “I tend to stay a lot in the electronica genre,” he admitted. “I really like the whole retrowave and synthpop sound. FM-84. The Midnight. I’m really vibing with this song by Jessie Frye right now, but I can’t for the life of me remember what the song is named. I don’t know, there’s something about the nostalgia of it all. I also really like electro hip-hop, and house. I love a good bass drop.”
“Synthpop, electro hip-hop, and house,” she mused. “That’s quite an interesting mix.”
“I listen to alt rock and indie rock too,” Damien said with a grin, “you know, more normal stuff. Tame Impala. Arctic Monkeys. Foster the People.”
“You would like the Arctic Monkeys.”
“Don’t make fun of me.” Damien shot her a bemused look, though he couldn’t actually see her.
“As someone who listens to the normal stuff, I can safely say that normal is severely overrated, and normal is certainly criticized as being ‘basic.”
“I would never call you basic for liking, uh,” Damien began, rapidly sifting through his pop culture flash cards in his head but came up empty, “whoever is on Top 40 radio. And if I can hop onto my high horse for a second, I never understood people who hate on others’ music tastes. Why waste your energy hating something as innocuous as music that brings someone else joy? Yucking someone’s yum was never my style.”
“A philosophy I very much agree with,” she agreed.
Shortly thereafter they arrived at the restaurant, situated on Albany’s State Street between the majestic gothic-style spires of the SUNY building at the bottom of the hill and the massive marble building with a red roof that was the Capitol building at the top. Doing the reverse of what Damien had done when he picked her up, he got out of the car and opened her door for her, taking her by the hand to help her out of the vehicle. Damien handed the keys to a very eager valet.
“I see the excitement in your eyes,” Damien murmured to him quietly, a tone of warning seeping in. “Take care of her. No joyrides.”
He turned back to Anne with a warm smile. “Shall we?”
The restaurant was dimly lit but alive with the din of conversation. Glasses and silverware clinked. The pianist in the corner was in the middle of some old-sounding composition. Debussy? Brahms? Chopin? Damien was no connoisseur of classical music; that was another stereotype he didn’t subscribe to. He much preferred his electro-funk.
"Mr. Wilson, glad to see you again," said the hostess, who cut her eyes in Anne’s direction with a microexpression that looked a lot like hostility.
Knowing how the hostess tended to undress him with her eyes every time he walked in here, Damien felt his stomach tighten at the nearly invisible icy look. Internally, he noted with wry amusement that the hostility wasn’t even subtle. “Yes, I have a 7:30.”
“I can see that. Right this way,” she said, glancing at her reservation list on the tablet that glowed faintly and lit her face from below. Anne and Damien followed her through the maze of tables, past mostly couples huddled together in hushed conversations, holding hands with each other. Around them swirled the scents of Italian cuisine—the mouthwatering aromatics of sauteed garlic and onion, the earthy scents of truffles, cheese, and seafood, and the acidic bite of stewed tomatoes and citrus. Damien couldn’t wait to taste it, and he couldn’t wait for Anne to taste it either.
As they approached the table, Damien couldn’t help but notice the way Anne’s eyes widened in awe as she swept her eyes across the elegant surroundings, taking in the soft glow of flickering candles on the tables and the rich hues of the upscale decor. The subtlest of smiles played on her face as they heard patrons expressing their delight at how their dishes were presented and tasted. He could tell she was appreciating every ounce of ambiance in the restaurant.
Led to a table towards the back, Damien pulled out Anne’s seat for her and then took the one across from her. The dark wood table was set immaculately, pristine creamy porcelain dishes and spotless wine glasses resting on a tablecloth the color of maraschino cherries.
“You really are quite the gentleman,” she said, a coy little smile perched on her lips. She gazed around the space, the light from the sconces and tabletop candle dancing in her eyes. She made a sideways glance at the hostess before returning her eyes to meet Damien’s. “And it seems you come here often.”
“Many-a-deal has been brokered within these walls,” he affirmed, taking the menus from the hostess and thanking her without making any further eye contact. “Have you ever eaten here?”
The hostess filled the water glasses.
“No, though I’ve always wanted to, but haven’t really had the opportunity or reason. I’ve heard excellent things.”
“You won’t be disappointed.” He handed her both the food and wine menus. “Please order whatever you like. No holds barred. Or if you’re feeling adventurous, we could both get the tasting menu.”
His head tilted slightly, a tinge of intensity to his gaze. He was challenging her to trust him, to let him treat her.
She did a quick sweep of the menu herself before bringing her eyes back to his, the angle of her head shifting to mirror his own. She was studying him right back. “I don’t see that on here.”
He felt his skin prickle. “It really showcases the chef’s range,” he added quickly. “Secret menu item.”
“Do you know the chef?” she asked with a nearly imperceptible quirk of the eyebrow.
“Well, I—”
Damien noticed the sly little smirk that had crooked the corner of her mouth.
“Oh, you’re being a smartass.”
“It would seem, Damien,” she said, placing the menu down on the table, “that ‘smartass’ might be my only setting.”
“Well then, you wear smartass well,”
Almost as well as you wear that dress, Damien thought wryly, his brain betraying him.
“If the tasting menu is what you recommend, then let’s get that,” she replied, back on task.
“Wine?”
“Red. Generally indifferent to sweetness, but I do tend to lean more sweet. You know, like how I take my coffee.”
The black and white clad waiter appeared by the table. “Good evening, Mr. Wilson,” he greeted. “Would you like to hear our specials this evening?”
“Actually,” Damien said, handing him the menus back. “I think we’re all set. Two of the tasting menus, a bottle of the house red, and a Coke for me. Glass bottle, please.”
“Bougie,” Anne jested.
“We all have our vices,” he admitted. “And mine is Coca-Cola—the real thing with real sugar. Want one?”
She shook her head.
“Then we’re all set. Thank you.”
The waiter turned and left.
A little while later, the first course arrived. It was a delicate arrangement of seared scallops on a bed of microgreens, drizzled with a citrus-infused vinaigrette. Anne’s eyes widened in appreciation as the plate was set before her, her lips parting a silent “wow” as she took in the presentation.
“These look incredible,” she murmured, picking up her fork eagerly. She cleaved the scallop in half with the side of her fork; it flaked as the flesh met the utensil. She took a delicate bite and instantly he knew she liked it. Her eyes rolled a little and she did this adorable little shimmy right before she said, “Mmmmm!”
Damien nodded, a pleased smile tugging at him. “The chef is known for his seafood. I’m glad you like them. And the menu only gets better.”
As they savored the dish, Damien decided to steer their conversation into more personal topics. “So, who was that I saw at your house? A girlfriend or…?” he inquired, genuinely curious, but hoping his curious assumption was as far from wrong as it came.
Anne chuckled, setting down her fork right in time for the next course to arrive. “Nah, that’s just my housemate, Cass. We’ve been living together for a couple years now. I own the house, but I like having someone around to hang out with from time to time. We’ve become good friends. She’s a PT.”
“Sounds like a good arrangement. Do you have a big circle of friends?”
She shrugged. “Big enough. A lot of my friends are the same ones I’ve had from high school, and other friends are ones made by getting to know the spouses of some of them. I joke that the Venn Diagram of friendships throughout my life has become a circle. I’m very fortunate to have such a diverse, big group of friends from different circles that have blended and get along with each other so well. Parties are fun. What makes up your circle of friends?”
“Well,” Damien began, feeling a bubble of sadness inflate as he went on, wondering how honest he should be with her, “my circle is generally pretty small. I have one or two close friends. And I have a few folks I’ve met through the industry, and will grab dinner and drinks when I’m in their cities for whatever reason. But between the job and the travel, I can’t say I have a lot of close relationships.”
Now she’ll just think you’re pathetic, Damien thought bitterly, sarcasm lacing the internal admission. Woe is me.
There was no point in telling her that he’d learned the hard way that so many people he’d once been friends with only wanted to be around him because he was fucking loaded, and so he generally stopped trying to make friends. So he’d continue to be the insanely rich asshole with no real friends. He hoped she wouldn’t be someone who only wanted to be friends because of his deep pockets.
“I’m very aware of how that comes off. Me, the successful CEO with no friends. Sounds entitled and arrogant… and oh so cliché.” He heard the bitterness in his own tone. He heard the loneliness.
“That might all be true,” she offered, sipping from her glass, “but that doesn’t make you wrong for wanting genuine human companionship. If I’m being forward, I imagine having a lot of money, as someone like yourself clearly does, brings out a lot of parasitic and fake people—can make it really hard to trust others. I have sympathy for that, not that you want or asked for my sympathy. That’s probably the last thing you want.”
Oh.
She was right. He didn’t want her sympathy. But at the same time, it felt good to have someone validate that part of him with honest compassion and understanding. He saw all those things in her eyes as she looked at him, and a trickle of longing dripped through him, unbidden and undeniable.
“Hm,” he said, forcibly noncommittal. “Well, my best friend is my brother Erik. He’s a lot of things; he’s obnoxious and immature, funny, kind, unorthodox, and a lot smarter than he lets on, but don’t tell him I said that, it’ll inflate his ego,” Damien laughed.
She drew her thumb across her mouth in a zipper pantomime.
Damien leaned back slightly in his chair, studying Anne's expression as she mirrored his laughter. He felt a flicker of comfort in the easy flow of their conversation, the tension from earlier gradually melting away. The waiter appeared again, unobtrusively clearing the empty plates before setting down the next course—a dish of creamy risotto adorned with slivers of black truffle.
Anne’s eyes lit up. “Now this,” she said, inhaling deeply, “smells divine.”
Damien smiled at her enthusiasm. “Their risotto is legendary. If the scallops impressed you, this will seal the deal.”
She took a spoonful, and her eyes fluttered shut briefly as she savored the rich flavors. “Okay, you were right,” she admitted, pointing her spoon at him. “This is incredible.”
“I’ll make a note of that,” Damien teased. “Mark the date—Anne Neuman admits Damien Wilson was right.”
“Oh, don’t get used to it,” she retorted, her smile playful. “This is a rare event.”
He chuckled. “Duly noted.”
“Tell me more about your brother.”
Damien leaned forward slightly, his enthusiasm uncontainable as he launched into a description of his brother. “He’s an insanely talented musician who more often than not leaves me in awe of his skill. But he’s always there when I need him, and part of his hidden intelligence isn’t just intellectual. He sees people with alarming accuracy. By that, I mean he understands the human condition and can spot things about someone’s behavior, keying into what’s going on behind the curtain long before they do. Mostly, he’s just infuriating, though.”
“There’s a term for that,” Anne said, tilting her head in thought.
“Being infuriating? I believe it’s just ‘asshole,’” Damien quipped.
“No,” she replied with a soft chuckle, “I might call that emotional intelligence.”
Damien mulled over the term for a moment before nodding. “Makes sense.”
The waiter arrived then, whisking away their second course and setting down the third. He refilled their glasses before disappearing once more.
“What about your family? Are you close with them?” Damien asked.
Anne’s expression softened further. “Yes, very much so. I come from a pretty close-knit family—my parents, my older sister, and me. We may not see each other as often as we’d like, but we always make time for family gatherings and holidays. And we’re always talking. My parents retired to North Carolina, and my sister lives up in Vermont.”
“That’s lovely,” Damien replied, genuinely touched by her sentiment. He watched her do the little shimmy and eye roll again with her first bite of the third plate. It was, he decided, a rather cute idiosyncrasy. “Obviously, you now know how much I value a good familial relationship.”
As they continued their meal, the conversation naturally veered toward the topic they were supposed to be discussing: the upcoming presentation on customer centricity. Anne’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as she delved into her ideas and strategies. Her passion was evident, laced into every word she spoke.
“I think the key to a successful customer centricity approach is really understanding the needs and preferences of our target audience,” Anne explained, her hands gesturing animatedly. “By putting the customer at the center of everything we do, we can create more meaningful interactions, better advertising, and ultimately drive greater customer loyalty and satisfaction. That’s precisely what our recent customer service ad campaign was all about.”
Damien nodded, impressed by her insights from a marketing-specific perspective. “Absolutely, I couldn’t agree more. We need to focus on building authentic connections and delivering value at every possible touchpoint.”
As Anne continued to outline her vision for the presentation, pointing to scribbles in the notebook she had pulled out, Damien’s attention momentarily wavered, his mind drifting back to the fleeting image of the bruise on her neck.
“So, do you have a partner?” he asked casually, suddenly, trying to sound nonchalant.
What the actual fuck did you ask that for? he berated himself silently.
Anne raised an eyebrow, looking a touch startled.
Damien felt a wave of discomfort wash over him at the idiotic abruptness of his question. What had he been thinking? He scrambled to find an excuse. “I was curious because it’s important to understand consumers’ social dynamics, demographics, relationships, living situations, et cetera, as part of the specifics of a customer centric approach. You know, trying to gain insights into how people interact in different contexts.”
Her expression was skeptical, and he knew she was smart enough to draw any number of conclusions from his idiotic question. “Well, I’ve been seeing this guy, Todd,” she replied hesitantly, her tone scrutinizing. “Casually. I’m not sure how that would aid in the content of our presentation.”
Think, asshole.
“I didn’t mean the details,” Damien lied, though his mind clung to them. “But it does factor in. Our own relationships certainly play into how we interpret all the data we collect. Me and my brother, you and your family, or you and whoever. Understanding relationships, especially our own, strengthens our abilities to focus marketing and product on those customers. It’s those authentic connections I mentioned.”
He was desperately trying to smooth over the unbearably awkward moment. A tight pang twisted in his chest. “Todd” was none of his business.
“Makes sense,” Anne said slowly, her expression unclear as to whether she had bought his explanation. “Considering our line of work.”
She’s smart. She probably didn’t buy it. You didn’t even buy it. Hello, HR? I’d like to turn myself in.
“What about you? Do you have a partner?” she asked, taking a sip of her wine and gazing at him over the rim of the glass with an unnerving intensity.
Damien swallowed hard, offering only a solitary shake of his head. “So, do you have any thoughts on how we can better tailor our marketing strategies to meet the needs of those different demographic groups?” he asked, eager to steer the conversation back to safer territory. “This could be some more content to consider for the presentation because you’ve already dropped some fantastic ideas.”
Anne paused before responding, then launched into her thoughts, sketching out a vision on paper. Damien refocused, mentally shelving his previous missteps. They bounced ideas off one another, outlining potential approaches.
After a while, their conversation began to wind down, and the last plates of the menu found their way to the table. Anne leaned back in her chair, a satisfied smile crossing her face. “I think we’ve made great progress today,” she remarked, glancing at the vast compilation of notes. “I’m feeling really good about the presentation.”
“We should,” Damien agreed, relieved that the conversation had navigated away from his earlier awkwardness. Seizing the moment, he shifted the topic toward more personal interests. “You’re clearly passionate about what you do, and that will translate into excellent content and delivery. But what else do you enjoy? It can’t all be marketing budgets and performance indicators.”
Anne’s eyes lit up, and she launched into a description of her hobbies and passions, speaking of time spent with her vast circle of friends and how she loved to settle down with a good book.
“I’m also a fan of trying new places to eat,” she said, spooning a bite of olive oil cake into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m very grateful to you for this delightful dining experience.”
Damien beamed, warm with pride at her enjoyment. “Happy to.”
She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “So, you’re a businessman all day, every day. What do you like to do that isn’t staring at, I don’t know, whatever it is you stare at all day?”
“I have quite a fascination with cars. Specifically supercars and exotics.”
“You? Supercars? Never took you for the type.”
Damien laughed, harder when he saw the smirk on her face. “What can I say? I was an engineer before I was a businessman, so I appreciate that above all. There’s something about the sleek lines, the raw power, the engineering marvels… It’s like art in motion, you know? And then to drive them, it’s absolutely exhilarating.”
Before he knew it, he was lost in a loquacious run-on sentence about his love of cars. “The way I’m currently in a bidding war for a Chiron in the classic blue and black. What a work of art. The contours and the swoop in its silhouette. Fuck, that thing is sexy.”
Anne watched him, clearly intrigued as he carried on.
“I loved my 488. That thing was a monster. It’s a fantastic car in its own right. But the Aventador is a different kind of beast altogether. It’s not just a car; it’s a primal force of nature. The way it growls to life, demanding your attention—it’s like taming a wild stallion.” Damien launched into an animated monologue about horsepower, torque, and top speeds.
“And when you unleash its full potential, when you push it to the limit—there’s nothing else like it,” he said, his voice brimming with excitement. “Adrenaline and sheer power. It’s an experience that leaves you breathless and craving more. I love taking her to the track.”
“Sounds incredible.”
“Oh, they really are. But when I got my hands on my dream car… the 722,” Damien groaned dramatically, “that slut can fucking drive.”
Anne’s expression faltered, her smile twitching. Damien flushed. Even for him, that was out of character.
“Uh, sorry. I didn’t mean, er, I did mean but that’s not what I—”
“I can’t say I know what ‘driving like a slut’ means,” she said, her eyebrow arching in mock inquiry. She didn’t sound upset—she sounded like she was mocking him. At least, he hoped so. “But I can infer, and I’ll take your word that’s how a slut drives.”
Definitely mocking me, he concluded tartly.
He pushed through his embarrassment. “Have you ever heard the roar of a 722S tearing down an empty stretch of road at dawn?” His voice brimmed with excitement. “It’s music. Raw power and precision engineering. Every shift of the gears, every pulse of the engine. Like I said—poetry in motion. The way she hugs the curves and accelerates with effortless grace. Driving the 722 is like dancing with a supermodel under the moon. It transcends just being a mode of transportation. You’ve experienced her. You know?”
He nodded eagerly, expecting her to agree.
“I’ll take your word for it, because I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said with a laugh.
“The 722. My baby. My favorite,” Damien clarified, watching her bemused expression that told him she really did have no idea what he was talking about. He searched for a simpler way to describe it. “The one we came in today. You know, the one with the shiny silver doors that go ‘whoosh!’ when they open.”
“Ah yes, how could I forget the whoosh doors?” Anne chuckled, shaking her head in amusement.
Damien realized he had been rambling for far too long and laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry, I tend to get carried away when it comes to cars.”
Anne smiled warmly. “I can see that, but there’s no need to apologize. Though you are a bit of a cliché, I can appreciate when someone is so passionate about something, even if it’s not my cup of tea.”
“Passion is passion, right?” Damien offered.
Her smile deepened, eyes alight with understanding. “It sure is, Damien. It sure is. They all sound incredible. I’m glad you enjoy them so much.”
“I’ll just finish up my car rant by saying this,” he said, the grin creeping back onto his face. “Each one is a masterpiece in its own right. They’re a testament to the ingenuity and artistry of automotive engineering. It’s a damn privilege to sit behind the wheel of those machines. And you best believe I drive them. Cars are made to be driven, not simply ogled at.”
The waiter appeared beside him, asking if there was anything else they needed. Damien deferred to Anne, who shook her head, before sliding the black titanium card into the check sleeve without a second glance.
“Can I at least cover the tip?” Anne asked as the waiter left.
“Absolutely not. I invited you, on your time, to talk about my company,” Damien said. Allowing her to see the bill would reveal the truth about the 16-course “tasting menu,” which wasn’t even on the menu. He’d arranged it through a call to the chef earlier in the day, a trick he reserved for particularly important guests.
“Besides,” he added with a cheeky grin, “you’re a cheap date. If I didn’t cover the whole thing, I’d feel like I was slacking on that gentleman title you gave me.”
Anne raised an eyebrow.
“Your time, company, and input are priceless. A nice dinner to pick your brain and get to know you better is a small price to pay for your actual worth.”
Damien saw her sit up straighter, her cheeks faintly pink. “Thank you,” she mumbled.
When the waiter returned with the receipt, Damien signed it and stood. “Shall we?”
Anne rose, and together they wove through the maze of tables. The city’s cool summer air greeted them as they stepped outside, the sounds of Friday night blending into the glow of the streetlights.
“Thank you for the wonderful evening, Damien,” Anne said warmly, looking up at him. “I really enjoyed our conversation and the amazing meal.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” Damien replied with a smile. “I’m glad we had the chance to connect, and discuss the project in a different setting. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“I’m always happy to contribute,” she said bashfully. “I’m glad we have a good outline for our talking points.”
“Definitely. We’ll have something solid in no time,” Damien assured her as the car pulled up. “Shall we head back?”
Anne nodded, and Damien once again opened the car door for her.
The drive back, with the top down, was filled with easy conversation and bursts of laughter. When they arrived at her house, Damien pulled to a stop and turned to face her.
“Here we are,” he said, his throat suddenly dry.
Anne met his gaze, running her fingers through her wind-tousled hair.
For a moment, Damien pictured it was how her hair looked first thing in the morning, or after a physical night with Todd. Recalling the man’s name, especially with such ease, sent a sharp jab of irritation through him.
“Thank you again, Damien. This was a really nice evening. And I appreciate the ride.”
“Anytime, Anne,” he said, banishing thoughts of Todd, his smile genuine. They sat in a pregnant silence gazing at each other before Damien finally added, “Take care. See you… whenever I next see you.”
Anne placed her hand on the door handle, her eyes flicking to the upward-swinging motion of the doors as they opened with a soft whoosh. “Doors that go whoosh when they open, indeed,” she said with a smirk. “Drive safe, Damien.”
He watched her step out, waiting until she was safely inside, illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlights. Damien let out a slow breath, ran a hand through his hair, and drove off into the night.
Erik’s car was still in the driveway when Damien arrived home. He checked the studio but found the door locked. Instead, Erik was sprawled on the living room couch, spilling popcorn as he watched a movie.
Damien grabbed a beer from the fridge, shrugged off his suit jacket and vest, and flopped onto the couch beside him, loosening his tie.
“Where’s mine?” Erik asked, gesturing to the bottle as he muted the television.
“You could have helped yourself, seeing as you helped yourself to everything else,” Damien shot back, grabbing a handful of popcorn.
Erik snagged the bottle from Damien and took a sip. Damien glared. “Why are you still here?”
“You have a bigger TV.”
He wasn’t wrong. The TV was the size of the wall.
“You’re not supposed to be in here without asking.”
“I stayed up to make sure you got home safe. I was worried sick about you, darling.”
Damien rolled his eyes, heat creeping up his neck. “You just wanted to see if I brought her home, didn’t you?”
“Or to provide moral support if you didn’t.”
“I didn’t because it was just a business dinner. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that.”
“I think you’ve got a little crush on her.”
“You’ve overstayed your welcome, Erik.”
“You’re blushing.”
“You’re annoying.”
A trice of silence passed.
“Now, if I could be serious for a minute…” Erik began.
Damien raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you had that software upgrade,” he quipped.
Erik ignored the jab. “D, I know you’re trying to play it cool, but I can see right through you.”
Damien shifted uncomfortably. “Come on. What are you talking about?”
“You can pretend it was just a business dinner, but I’ve known you long enough to recognize when you’re developing feelings for someone,” Erik said softly. “But whether it’s here”—he pointed to his heart—“or here”—he pointed to his crotch—“remains to be seen.”
Damien swallowed hard, remembering the way he felt when the name Todd flashed through his mind. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure,” Erik said, waving his finger in front of Damien’s face. “There’s nothing wrong with letting yourself feel something after all this time, even if it scares you.”
They sat in silence, Erik’s words hanging in the air.
After a moment, Erik handed Damien the popcorn, took another swig from the beer, and stood. “At some point, you’ll realize I’m right.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked backward toward the door.
Who are you and what have you done with my brother? thought Damien with amusement.
“It’ll probably be tonight when you’re thinking about her as you jerk off,” Erik added with a smirk.
Damien groaned. “Aaaaaand there he is,” he muttered, hearing the front door close softly. Reclining on the couch, he absently munched on the popcorn, sighing as he ran a hand over his face. “There he is.”